GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #301: MY CANE

 Ever since I was a young man, I had a phrase I've always wanted to say. I never could because I was never old enough.

I got this line from an author I used to highly respect. He lives in disgrace now, as he should, because he didn't treat women authors as well as he claimed he did. Hint: he used to get annoyed when people used to confuse him for Nick Cave's excellent violinist. Now, I'll wager he wished that people would think he was Nick Cave's excellent violinist.

I used to have another quote of his on my office wall for the last 15 years: DRUNK SINCE 1983, AND I CAN STILL DEFEAT YOUR ENEMIES. A lot of people thought that was me in that picture because I shared the same evil genius beard when I had it. But the picture showed nothing above his eyebrows, which would have shown a bald head. I have a full head of luscious hair at the age of 42. That is one of two positive things I can say about my physical appearance. I have run into my fellow high school students over the years and have discovered that I'm a rarity in that I have all of my hair, and it is a veritable mop. Almost all of it is still black, too. I'm not a vain man, but I'm glad I still have all of my hair. I figured I'd be bald by thirty. I had my mom's hair, and all males until me on that side went bald by 20. But my dad died nearly 60 years of age with a full head, so I guess I have his genes to thank.

By the same thought process I thought I would age early. I would need a cane early. But I never thought I would need it this soon.

His other phrase: SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'LL HIT YOU WITH MY CANE. I have eagerly wanted to say that to someone. Now that I need a cane to get by most days, I actually can say it. 

But none of you fuckers have given me an excuse. Please. Say something stupid to me. I want to say this line so badly. And mean it. Seriously. I'd like it if a stranger gave me the opportunity, but I need this in my life.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #300: TONIGHT WE DINE IN HELL!

 *ahem*

Sorry about the title. To quote Dr. King Schultz, "I could not help myself."

This column has run for six years. Six. Motherfucking years. And now we're on the 300th entry. Dear fucking God, have I really been doing this for so long? Have I no life?

I went down a rabbit hole of nostalgia tonight, rereading the first 100 GF columns. While I stand by every one of them, I don't think that I'm the same person who wrote that first column. That guy and me have a lot of years between us. A lot has happened. I'm not even close to that guy anymore. I like him (in all honesty, I liked him more than I thought I would), but the John Bruni of his late thirties is definitely not the same John Bruni of his early forties. There has been a lot of heartbreak and whiskey between him and me. If I told him that Gramps would die not too long after his 90th birthday, I think I would have broken him. If he knew I was such a huge fan of opioids that I sometimes lie to get them, he probably would have disapproved. He thought his hypocrisy had limits, but he has no idea that my hypocrisy turns out to have no bounds. He didn't even know how shitty 2016 would be, much less how fucking agonizing 2020 is. The idea that a lunatic reality show host with delusions of grandeur and the worst comb over in history as US President is completely alien to him. He knew Trump as a fraud and a conman and one of the most horrible people alive, but he had no idea that you chumps would actually let him be US President. He would be most fucking disappointed. He prayed publicly for the DeathBird to embrace us all, but he never would have suspected a fucking plague would do the job. He would probably find comfort in the fact that Keith Richards is somehow still alive. (Ah, but wait! The end of the year is at least a decade away.)

He would never have thought I would be unemployed for more than half a year and doing battle with the Unemployment Office the whole way. He would never have envisioned me cashing in on my 401k. But I think he would have been proud of his published work, especially BLOOD, which he had long ago abandoned as unwriteable but turned out to be pretty fucking good in final draft form. If I don't say so myself. (And I do, dammit. Allow me some fucking vanity, fuckers.)

Fuck! I wish I could go back in time and slap that son of a bitch in the face and tell him about all this shit. Especially about how wrong he is about the probability of the IT remake and Bill and Ted 3 happening. I think he would have found much pleasure and joy in that knowledge.

But here's something he didn't know at the time: how many good friends he will make in his journey through life. How many of them would stick by him despite losing his mind several times. Despite his time on the psych ward and his very regrettable suicide attempt. Despite all the people who would prefer he didn't drink and the disappointment he sometimes inspires in people, especially to his closest loved ones. He'd be baffled if he heard me call myself an alcoholic. He's still in the mindset that he's a drunkard. He hasn't gone through alcohol withdrawals yet. At the same time, I've inhabited the philosophy of early Gregory House: "I said I was an addict. I didn't say I had a problem." I wish he would have watched that show live because he would have recognized House as the voice at the back of his head that he always censored in order to be nicer or more polite.

Actual scene from the ER:

DOCTOR: You need to stop drinking, or you'll be dead by 50.

ME: Oh, moral platitudes. I love those.

Viewed just yesterday, an actual scene from HOUSE, MD:

WILSON: (saying whatever sanctimonious shit he usually says)

HOUSE: Oh, moral platitudes. I was running low on those.

Fuck, I even have the gimp leg to go with House . . . and I have a cane to use as a weapon.

And sorry to my past self, but your efforts to #SaveConstantine fail. Good news: he has a guest appearance on the CRISIS CW crossover, along with Lucifer, who didn't get his show canceled forever. The new season is on Netflix, which I will watch very soon.

Funny. I kind of thought I might make a very brief and non-professional speech about the Spartans and how Frank Miller was surprisingly faithful to history in his book. But better history fans than I have done that, and I'd rather keep GF columns personal.

This year has been the worst of my life. No job. No money. No prospects. Everything I write turns on me and throws me into a corner until I have to destroy the whole thing and start new. Even the shit I wrote on the psych ward bites back. Well, except for one thing that absolutely no one knows I'm writing. That's going all right. I spend most times driving to forest preserves and reading books. I just finished THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. My mp3 in my car has not worked for months, and it kicked on today, for no discernible reason, and played the score to the movie, THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. It was actually pretty gratifying. I almost finished EMPIRE by Gore Vidal. Before I got my own books back on the psych ward, I lucked out and was placed in a room previously occupied by a reader who left their books behind. Gore Vidal was the only author I'd heard of, so I started reading that one. It is a fucking masterpiece of historical fiction. I took it with me when I left the psych ward.

This has gotten long, and hopefully not too boring or self-referential. I'm just excited to still be here, even if I'm neck-deep in shit. 300 fucking columns. Six fucking years.

Fuck that ER doc. I'm going to beat his prediction. I'm going to be here at 51. And then? I'm going to beat both of my parents and actually make it to 60. After that? No promises.

I hope to write many more of these GF columns. I kind of regret calling these GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. I was a younger man. I wanted to grab people's attention by the throat. But as noted in several (sometimes very drunken) columns, you're not fuckers. Not a one of you.

You're the best friends I've ever had.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #299: WHAT DO THE IT REMAKE AND BILL AND TED FACE THE MUSIC HAVE IN COMMON?

 There is one thing that the IT remake and Bill and Ted Face the Music have in common: both are movies that people have been talking about for fucking years. It got to the point where I decided that I would never believe either of them happening. I said, of both films, that I would not believe either was actually happening until I sat in the theater and saw the opening credits for each movie.

When IT CHAPTER 1 was announced as finished, I said that it was bullshit. It wasn't real. I fully believed that I would be sitting in my theater seat with popcorn and Coke, and the opening credits would roll and Tim Curry as Pennywise would say, "Just kidding, John Bruni! You fool! Sit back for the full time of the original IT TV movie!HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

That didn't happen. I began to have more hope for Bill and Ted 3. And then the plague happened, and I realized there was no way in hell I'd see the movie in a theater. Much to my shock and glee, it was released On Demand, and I got to watch it from my own home. I could not have been happier with the result. I have always loved the idea of a couple of lovable idiots who save the world through the universal power of music. If you don't, I suspect you might not be human. And to watch the third film unfold made me feel young again. It was great to see how they save the world. It was awe inspiring and very beautiful. I had a wonderful time.

This means that I might be wrong about another possible trilogy that was never finished. So Hollywood . . . when are we finally going to finish the Weekend at Bernie's trilogy?!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #298: A MOST BEAUTIFUL MOMENT.

 To be read to this song.

Every year, on the anniversary of his death, my family gets together to visit my grandfather's grave. Due to the plague this year, we didn't get to go. I try to visit him as often as I can. I promised myself that if I was ever in the neighborhood, for whatever reason, I would stop and visit. I usually bring two airplane bottles of Jim Beam. That was his favorite drink. At the conclusion of each visit I would pour one into the ground on his side of the grave while drinking the other for myself. (On the left side is my grandmother's mom, and Gramps is on the far right side. Between them is my grandmother. She has recently changed her mind and wants to be cremated instead, like her daughter, my mom.)

When I got off the psych ward I wanted to see him again. But my liquor store didn't have Jim Beam. I got Old Forrester, which I like, but it still felt like a betrayal. I went to see him regardless. I told him about the psych ward. I also told him that he picked the right time to check out. He would not have liked this world now one bit. Sadly, he would have voted for Trump, and I think he would have refused to wear a mask during this plague. But I loved him more than I have loved anyone else in the world. Everything good in me is because of him. I sat there next to him. Or maybe above him. I apologized for the Old Forrester and imagined he forgave me. I poured his shot and drank mine. I told him goodbye until next time and threw the empty airplane bottles into the garbage next to the hill that forbade people from sledding on it in the winter. I started my way out of the cemetery when I saw something that made me stop.

I saw a man on a camping chair next to a grave. He looked maybe ten years older than me. He had a guitar in his lap, and he belted out the most sorrowful song I have ever heard. I stopped my car and lowered the window for the full effect. Normally I would leave the grieving to themselves, but I couldn't help myself. I looked at the grave and saw it was a woman who died in 2020. Two days ago. Born in 1969. The guitar sounded great, but it was the mournful sound of his voice that nailed me to my drivers seat like a butterfly on a display board. I don't know if you know Terry Reid, but his song sounded a lot like this. I don't cry often. It was beaten out of me at an early age. But I couldn't help but weep my eyes out as I listened to this man's ode to his dead lover. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I tried to be quiet so as not to disturb him and his grief. His song built higher and higher until his own voice cracked. He couldn't continue as he screamed her name and wept into his hands. He gave out honking tears into his palms until he realized he was being watched. He turned back to look at me. Our eyes locked, and we saw how much we were each crying. He nodded, still shaking with grief, and I nodded back, my own grief wetting my face. He turned back to his love and fell to his knees, touching the grass just outside the dirt outline from where she had been buried. I thought I should drive away then, and I couldn't stop crying until I got home.

I hate humanity. I have several friends who have apocalypse theories, and I hope at least one of them is right. We don't deserve this wonderful planet we somehow live on. None of them like it when I say that we need to fast track this shit.

But I'm not a monster. Not at heart. I find these moments in life and revel in them, no matter how hard it might be for me. There is great beauty in this world if you're looking. Fuck. You're going to think I'm a good person if I continue along these lines, but take my word for this. Sorrow brings out the best in us. Sorrow kills the worst in us. Sorrow reminds us that love is real and can move us to great moments.

If you love someone, and in this world I don't take that for granted, tell them so. I told my grandfather often. My mom, too. I wish I'd told my dad, but he was very emotionally shut off, which I suppose I inherited from him despite not knowing him for many years. And I never imagined he would die so young.

Love is the answer. I weep as I write this. Don't worry. I'm not getting soft on you. My regularly scheduled misanthropy will continue shortly. But I mean it. Find someone you love and let them know you love them.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #297: VALENTINE'S VITRIOL

So I was driving around today just so I wouldn't have to be in my bedroom anymore. I heard something I found kind of odd on the radio. Something that I didn't really expect. Anyone remember Sam Kinison? Yeah, the preacher-turned-stand up comedian. He had this bit, which was almost certainly faked, where he would find someone heartbroken in his audience and then call the woman who broke his heart live onstage. He would then scream obscenities at her, usually over her answering machine (kids, that's what we had before voicemail, and it was the same fuckin' thing anyway, so it doesn't really matter, and I'm going to OK Boomer myself now), on behalf of the emotionally injured party. I always found it kind of awful, even if it was faked.

Fast forward to me driving around today. One of the DJs was doing a similar bit all day: call in and dedicate songs to your lying, cheating ex, and clarify why those songs. They were all basically fuck-you songs (and in one case the song was actually named "Fuck You"). Just as the DJ hit his post, he says the woman's first name, and then says, "F you."

What kind of person does this kind of thing? I can't possibly imagine how much vitriol you would have to have in your heart to call in to a radio station--a Sirius/XM station, Turbo, no less--to say fuck you to someone you used to love with all your heart. That sounds absolutely crazy to me.

Don't get me wrong. I've felt angry after a break up. I've felt heartbreak. I've felt betrayed. I understand, to some degree, how it feels to be in that position. But I would never call in to a radio station to do something like this.

I was a much younger man when I felt these things. These days I believe in free love, so long as everyone involved are adults, consenting and on the same page. Break ups don't hurt me like they used to. I've become almost bulletproof when it comes to that kind of thing. But I've been on both sides of this coin, and I still can't understand that kind of anger.

It's worth noting that everyone who made a dedication (at least that I heard) were men. There were no women with fuck-you on the tips of their tongue. This leads me to believe that this is male behavior, which should make it easier for me to understand. I still don't get it. I don't get keying her car, or talking shit about her, or stalking her, or making sure she's in a worse relationship after ours, or any of that batshit behavior.

To quote Ferris, "It's over. Go home."

For those curious, I spent my Valentine's Day alone. I think I prefer being single at this point in my life. Society always concerns itself when someone says they didn't do anything special for Valentine's Day with anyone special. They think something is wrong with you if you're not in a relationship. That's an idea that we should scrub from the social consciousness. I like my own company. Also, as a man of a certain age, my sex drive has gone way down, and it wasn't that high to begin with. I know, that's odd coming from someone who wrote Dong of Frankenstein and 6669, but there you go.

If you spent your time today with someone you love, good for you. I hope all went well. If you spent your time today alone, that's also cool. Don't let it bring you down. Don't let vitriol take over. That way lies madness and incels, and that leads to the Dark Side of the Force. But don't let it remove you from society, either.

To quote Silverchair (words you probably didn't expect to read today or any other day since the late 'Nineties), "I don't wanna be lonely. I just want to be alone."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #296: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

I have to say that I'm shocked by how successful my gofundme has been. One day, and I'm already over my goal. I have so many thanks to give all who pitched in and helped out. I should be able to cover my meds for a while, which should buy me the time to get a job with medical insurance. I'm so grateful to you all. Thank you so much! When I lost my insurance, I considered creating a gofundme, but fear held me back. Who would contribute? I didn't think it would get far beyond maybe twenty bucks. You all surprised the hell out of me. Again, thank you!


I have to say, though, I don't think it would have been possible without the help of one person.


I've been a fan of Joe Hill's since Heart-Shaped Box came out. I followed his career through books and comic books. I met him once at Andersons in Naperville. I've kept up with NOS4A2 on AMC and Locke & Key on Netflix and his Creepshow episode, etc. I'm so glad that this explosion of attention he is getting is happening. Because not only is he an amazing author, he's also a good person.


All I meant to do was comment on Twitter on how much I enjoyed Locke & Key. It got his attention, and he must have seen my post about running out of Paxil. He said if I put together a gofundme, he'd contribute. That gave me the courage I needed to create the page. Not only did he do that, but he retweeted it to everyone who followed him, and a lot of them responded very positively. A lot of them even contributed and put me over my goal.


See? The internet isn't always the cesspool people say it is. Maybe tonight this shouldn't be called Goodnight, Fuckers. Because a lot of you--maybe even most of you reading this--are definitely not Fuckers. You are good people.


Thank you so much, Joe Hill, for everything.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #295: WAKING UP TOO EARLY

I don't know what's going on, but the last two nights in a row I woke up waaaaaay too early, feeling very hungry and very weak.I have a few theories, two of which I'm testing out tonight. I think it's low blood sugar, which is highly unusual for me. My sugars are always high. Yet . . .


The hungry part. Am I eating dinner too early in the evening? I don't think so, but I'm very hungry upon waking up at, say, four in the morning. Tonight I ate a late dinner. Really late. Like, I just finished eating before writing this GF entry. I can't possibly wake up early with hunger, can I?


The weak part. I've been giving myself some pretty big insulin doses because I've been drinking a lot of Coke, which yes, I know, a diabetic like me shouldn't be doing in the first place. I'm trying to quit, but so far I haven't been able to. Am I giving myself insulin doses that are too big for just before bed? I intend to lower the dose and see what happens. I hope that doesn't result in a sugar score of 200 when I wake up at the regular time tomorrow.


Ah fuck. It's got to be one or both of these things. If I wake up too early again, I'm going to be angry with myself. It means that I go back to sleep and don't wake up until three in the afternoon, completely wasting my morning and early afternoon. This has got to work, right?